


Power Play

by queerlyobscure (softestpunk)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 10:24:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/queerlyobscure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone wants something. Some know better than others what that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Power Play

“Getting used to the throne, my Lord?”

Ned started at the familiar voice that belonged to one of the last people he wanted sneaking up on him. Petyr had a way of doing that that was all sorts of unpleasant when you weren't expecting it. He'd come in here earlier than he needed to in the hopes that he could avoid people seeing him hobbling along with a cane for support.

“I'm only keeping it warm,” he drawled. Petyr smirked like he didn't really believe him, and then looked sympathetic.

“It can't be doing your leg any good,” he observed. Unfortunately, he was right. Cold iron and painful wounds mixed poorly, and Ned was already having to grit his teeth against the throbbing pain.

“I suppose you're about to suggest trading places?” He asked wryly, unwilling to show any weakness in front of this man he wasn't sure he could trust.

“Actually,” Petyr smiled indecipherably as he unclipped his cloak from around his shoulders. “I was going to do something about it.”

Before Ned could get a protest in edgeways, the other man was stuffing his roughly folded cloak under his leg to protect the hurt. He gasped softly as his own struggling jarred his injury, but found that once it was cushioned, he was much more comfortable. Unconsciously, he moaned in happy relief, forgetting about his company for the moment.

“Now there's a sound I love to hear,” Petyr said with undisguised amusement. Ned blushed at the insinuation, but now that he was comfortable, was more willing to fight back with words at least.

“Sad that no-one ever makes it for you, then,” he defended, still embarrassed. Petyr laughed, though it wasn't really a cruel sound. More like the kind of laughter between friends that Ned was starting to forget.

“Except for you, you mean?” The other man teased. Ned blushed again, more darkly this time, and glanced away.

“You're convinced that everyone's like you, aren't you?” He grumbled, shifting uncomfortably in the too-big seat of the throne, hand brushing against the soft, rich, and completely unnecessary fur of Petyr's discarded cloak. He looked down at it in surprise, not having noticed while it was on him, but interested now that he'd noticed how unlike anything from the south it was.

“I thought something familiar might make the day a little easier,” Petyr smiled as he noticed Ned's interest in the fur. “Keep it, as a souvenir of your first day as king.” He bowed lowly and turned to leave.

“What do you want, Baelish?” Ned called after him, in part because it was the done thing to ask, even if you know you'd be lied to, and in part because he'd miss the company now that he'd had it, if the other man left.

“From you, my Lord, or out of life?” He smiled in a way that made his eyes dance, though Ned didn't really feel like he was being laughed at. It was rather a pleasant feeling, really.

“Either, both. Whatever you're willing to tell me,” Ned looked at him as though he didn't expect a sensible answer. With some surprise, he watched as Petyr approached the throne again, not coming to a stop until he was nearly on top of it, and then coming to kneel almost between Ned's legs. Ned held still, curious about what was about to happen. He tensed slightly as Petyr rested one hand on each of his thighs, hissing as the action disturbed his wound. The touch itself was gentle, though, and he forced himself to relax again. He was _not_ afraid of this man, and he cursed himself for behaving as though he was.

“From you, my Lord,” Petyr began at a whisper, “I want to see the man under the armour. The Eddard Stark who could easily rule this kingdom, bring it back to true prosperity, and keep it safe.”

Ned squirmed a little at the double entendré at the beginning of Petyr's request, more so because the hands on his thighs were slowly moving up, drawing all his attention to them. The rest of the words washed over him, neither registering as true or false. The ache of his leg was reduced to a dull twinge as long, clever fingers brushed over sensitive skin with only a thin layer of cloth between them. He sighed softly with the pleasure of it, completely without meaning to, and only then realised what was going on. He tensed again, blood rushing to his face guiltily, and averted his eyes.

“Poor little Lord Stark,” Petyr purred. “Six children and still so very innocent.” He stood up and chuckled, turning his back and walking away as though nothing at all had happened. “Call me when you want the rest of it,” he called back without turning around, confident more than smug. Ned's stomach turned over unpleasantly at the realisation that he was disappointed the other man had left.

He didn't even want to think about the thrill he'd felt before when Petyr had called this his first day as King.


End file.
